tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
by vis-et-decus
Summary: Santana x Quinn. you are the silence in-between what I thought and what I said. (heaven help me, I need to make it right.) /update - story finished 6 apr. after a two-year hiatus, I need to come in and drink some of your precious tears./
1. prologue

_I really fucked it up this time, didn't I my dear?_  
little lion man / mumford & sons


	2. prologue ii

No, this is not a love story, but it is a story about love.  
angelina jolie / _original sin_


	3. tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

**eleven.**

There are flowers. Santana always brings flowers (gardenias, because Rachel's told her they match Quinn's eyes) and she manages not to lose that legendary temper when Quinn doesn't respond back to those ordinary, run-of-the-mill questions that Santana poses in order to keep the conversation going.

"How are you doing?"  
"Not too bored, I hope?"  
"Do you still think about me sometimes?"  
"… well, here's what's going on with Rachel and Kurt–"

**ten.**

Santana's never forgotten that particular night. The night that was supposed to be celebrated when Emma Pillsbury because Emma Schuester but they all know how well _that_ particular fiasco went. Santana chooses, instead, to remember other things about that night: the curve of Quinn's breasts. The way her spine arched off the mattress _just_ so. The shadows that played over her face, the countless colors lurking in her irises like secrets waiting to be discovered. The beads of sweat that pooled at her temples and ran down those glorious cheekbones. The way she bit two teeth into her bottom lip in an effort to be quiet. The way her tongue peeked out a touch - a tiny sliver of pink, if that - when she choked on her own orgasm.

The look in Quinn's eyes when they were panting and boneless and skin-to-skin– the _second_ time.

That the first thing Santana thought, when she regained the ability to string together a coherent sentence in her head, was _You are excruciatingly beautiful._

That the second thing Santana thought, before she even finished processing the first, was _And I love you more than my next breath._

**nine.**

E-mails Santana has left in Quinn's inbox: 43  
Texts Santana has left in Quinn's inbox: 179  
Voicemails Santana has left in Quinn's inbox: 25  
Letters Santana has written that Quinn never read: Two.

_Hey peroxide princess, I'm working on a record deal. Just thought you should know, since you were gonna be some bigtime hotshot lawyer and take all my money, remember? Your first million in earnings is on me. You're welcome._

_By the way, I never told you I was proud of you when your acceptance package to Harvard Law came in the mail, so. I'm proud of you._

_Hope you're proud of me, too._

**eight.**

Of course Santana keeps revisiting the past, keeps on wondering _when _did it start– and _where_ did it start– and _why_ did it start– and perhaps the most important question, _how._

The obvious answer is the night after the cancelled wedding, but that's too simple to be the truth.

Of course, it doesn't help when Kurt offers commentary such as 'The way you two carry on, people will start talking - and believe me, I should know.' It's not like _that_, it's just… it's just that Santana cares for Quinn (but not like _that_), and she wants to help Quinn out with her self-esteem and co-dependency issues because she's Santana fucking Lopez and she'll be damned if she's appearing on the Maury Povich show twenty years from now trying to stage an intervention for Quinn with a Rachel Berry who's pouting that the spotlight isn't on her and about six women who are *still* trying to figure out who the fathers are.

Of course, her attempts to help are met with resistance - history has a way of repeating itself and all that - and it finally culminates in an epic showdown where the casualty list includes but is not limited to: two very sore hands, two very sore cheeks, two very sore egos, four pairs of shoes (to include one knockoff pair of Mahnolo Blahniks that Quinn will secretly cry about for the next two weeks), and half of Santana's DVD collection- the one that would have made the Library of Congress neon with envy (to include a bootleg recording of the stage version of _Madea Goes To Jail_ which Santana will secretly cry about for the next two weeks).

Of course, Santana eventually ends up screaming the following: "The only thing you need saving from is the idea that you need to be saved at all!"

Of course, Quinn does not call or text or Facebook message Santana for two weeks. It's a Friday that gets off to an auspicious start – Santana manages to re-acquire _Madea Goes To Jail_ - when Quinn finally calls, and starts off the conversation by saying in a completely nonchalant tone, "In spite of our last interaction, I have a disturbing lack of anger toward you."

Of course, Santana takes about five-point-three seconds to dissect Quinn's answer and respond with an equally-casual "Ah. Dinner at seven tonight, and don't suggest that faux-Italian café that doesn't offer complimentary breadsticks."

"Of course."

**seven.**

She never tells Quinn the truth. Santana never tells Quinn the truth, and it may be the first and only regret that she carries inside of her until the day she's nothing more than a bunch of decomposing material locked up in a wooden box buried six feet beneath the earth.

Santana's never told Quinn _her_ truth:

_Wait for me. Please._

**six.**

E-mails Santana has left in Quinn's inbox: 43  
Texts Santana has left in Quinn's inbox: 179  
Voicemails Santana has left in Quinn's inbox: 25  
Letters Santana has written that Quinn never read: One.

They all say the same thing:

_Fuck you, Fabray._

**five.**

Santana Lopez loves movies, which isn't terribly out of the ordinary - it's a common pastime for individuals of any sexuality, of any racial makeup, of any gender. She likes them for the reason many other people do: movies serve as an escape, a temporary absence from the reality that spins and whirls around her. For around two to three hours, she can watch other people live their lives and be nothing more than someone on the outside looking in. She can watch them go through their trials, their tribulations, their triumphs. She can watch these people go through every scenario possible, and maybe empathize with a few of them.

However, she can't focus on the movie right now. Not while Quinn is sitting right next to her - looking a little paler, a little thinner - than normal. There's no escape. Not from Quinn's proximity. Not from the steady, quiet sounds of her breathing. Not from the steady, quiet rise and fall of her chest, ribs pressing against the thin material of her shirt.

(How many times did Santana feel those ribs rise beneath her hands when they were back on the Cheerios, and she served as base while Quinn was flyer? Up Quinn would go and Santana knows the sharp profile of Quinn's body frozen in mid-air better than her tongue knows the ridges on the roof of her mouth. _Higher,_ Quinn would hiss right before they tossed her. _Higher, higher, _always _higher_ and no matter how far she flew it was never enough. Never enough for Quinn's perfectionist streak and never enough for Santana, who would stare and stare as Quinn kissed those heights that Icarus only dreamed of. And then, down– down– _safe._ How many times was there that burst of near-maniac breath, that fanatic light in her eyes, that split second where Quinn's instinctive animal fear finally caught up with the fact that she was in Santana's hands, that Santana didn't drop her, that Santana hadn't let gravity win?

Santana would always catch Quinn when she fell.

Catching _herself,_ however–)

Santana doesn't know quite how far she's fallen, but she knows it's stolen through her eyes (endless days of seeing that glory-gold hair in the hallways) and her nose (endless days of catching the hint of green apple in Quinn's soap as they showered after practice and Santana carefully kept her eyes trained on her own toes) and her ears (endless days of hearing that unique voice, whiskey and gravel, and just a touch of honey when they conversed in private) and her fingers (endless days of that carefully-pressed uniform crinkling against her fingers as she deposited Quinn back on solid earth after an impeccable throw, receiving nothing but a single breathless smile as thanks) and her mouth (one too-short night of feeling Quinn shake against her lips, and once you eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge it's all you feel you can ever stand anymore–)

_You've crawled into me and you cling to my blood like a disease. You are a weight I can't put down and I've tried, oh, how I've tried. I've tried to lay this thing to rest so many times- this is a disease, it's a disease as surely as anything they can find in a lab and–_

"I've applied to law school."

Santana startles out of her reverie and stares at Quinn with wide eyes. Her fingers have already closed around Quinn's wrist - the circumference smaller than she remembers from their high school years - when Quinn continues:

"I also have something else to tell you."

**four.**

_you can picture happy gath'rings_  
_'round the fireside long ago_  
_and you think of tearful partings_  
_when they left you here below_

**three.**

They're singing, and they're in church.

_Hah- only Quinn Fabray could manage to get me back into a church. _Sure, there was the whole abso-fucking-lute disaster that was the attempted Will Schuester-Emma Pillsbury wedding, but Santana will give that one a pass given that the wedding never actually came to be (and, well, because it was the only time she got to be with Quinn in _that_ way– but she can't think of being with Quinn in _that_ way, not here, not now, not while she's no more than twenty feet away from the coffin–). She always believed she'd be struck by lightning the instant she stepped foot into a church - first for her foul mouth, second for her wardrobe, third for the fact that she corrupted at least three altar boys here during her teenage years spent in denial, and fourth for her sexuality.

There's no lightning, sadly enough. Just Santana standing with the rest of the former Glee club, the kids– adults– _kids–_ she went to school with so long ago and yet not so long ago, and they're singing... just like nothing's changed.

But everything's changed, and they're still singing.

They're singing, the way she and Quinn used to do in Glee back when they were Quinn accompanied by Santana and Santana accompanied by Quinn and frequently Quinn vs Santana or Santana vs Quinn, but always, _always_ Quinn and Santana.

The choir sounds perfectly angelic, practically radiating ethereal divinity… like the way Quinn looked the few times they were closer than Quinn and Santana, the few times they were _QuinnandSantana_–

All the former members of the Glee club may be raising their voices to high heaven, but Santana realizes with a starting clarity and easiness - as easy as a heartbeat, as easy as death - that she's now condemned to walk a hell on earth until she finds Quinn in a place where the weight of the truth doesn't render her tongue useless, in a place where labels and societal norms and the busy distance of everyday life and the silence of time do not exist.

If such a place existed, she would find it. She would drag Quinn there, come hell or high water. And whenever that time came, she wouldn't be such a coward.

Because the one thing Santana Lopez does better than lose her temper or take revenge? Is keep her promises.

**two.**

Santana can remember the last time she saw Quinn, knows the memory better than her own smirk.

She's sitting beside where Quinn is resting in bed, the other girl's breathing quieter than a confession. One of Quinn's hands is resting palm-up; there's a delicate chaos to the spiderweb of veins that stands out against the pale skin on the inside of her wrist- whisper-thin marble interrupted by violent cerulean. Santana slides her hand beneath Quinn's, lifting up and gently spreading her fingers. The silence that surrounds them is heavier than Quinn: the blonde's body weight is low, low enough that Santana feels she could press her lips against Quinn's and feel her collapse like a house of cards.

She doesn't kiss Quinn.

Instead, Santana takes Quinn's outstretched fingers and slides an envelope between them. Quinn doesn't have the strength to hold it up so Santana keeps it aloft for her, letting Quinn realize the heft of it beneath the skin of her palm, feel how the curve of it fits just so in the space between her thumb and forefinger.

It's too thick to be anything but an acceptance package.

The brunette settles it carefully into Quinn's lap after a few moments and rests Quinn's hand back at her side. For a second, she wonders if it's too heavy for Quinn - too much for the rapidly-deteriorating muscles of her arms, too full of promises and potential that will go unanswered.

She blankly wonders if she's referring to the acceptance package or _them_, but before her emotions can interrupt–

Two tears slide from the corner of Quinn's right eye and come to rest on her cheek, and it's the last time Santana sees her with her eyes open.

**one.**

"This is _bullshit,_ Quinn."

There's no response.

There never is, not from Quinn- at least, not one that Santana's ever found herself content with.

**zero.**

Santana Lopez loves movies, which isn't terribly out of the ordinary – it's a common pastime for individuals of any sexuality, of any racial makeup, of any gender. She likes them for the reason many other people do: movies serve as an escape, a temporary absence from the reality that spins and whirls around her. For around two to three hours, she can watch other people live their lives and be nothing more than someone on the outside looking in. She can watch them go through their trials, their tribulations, their triumphs. She can watch these people go through every scenario possible, and maybe empathize with a few of them.

But no matter how long she's looked, how hard she's tried– and try she has–

Santana Lopez can't find a movie that tells her how to deal with being sorta, kinda, maybe

(absolutely, positively, unequivocally, hopelessly)

in love with her best friend, who also happens to be dead.

* * *

_it's not the hand that cuts it's the heart we left behind_  
coal war / joshua james


	4. author's notes

well, hope that wasn't too emotionally taxing. (actually, I do, because I thrive off pain.) while I was feeling a typical _unrequited love/argh-she's-dying-of-some-incurable-disease_ story, I decided to mix up the story flow to try and shake things up. here's to hoping I was mildly successful and people didn't guess what was happening from the very beginning – I deliberately left the timeline confusing and the setting vague, though obviously it happens after _I Do. _if you did figure out what was going on, have a breadstick. Santana can't eat them right now, she's too busy crying in the shower after finding a WMHS sweatshirt stuffed into the back of her closet that still smells faintly of green apple.

* * *

discography (or, music I listened to when I was writing):

* mirrors / justin timberlake

_show me how to fight for now and I'll tell you baby, it was easy  
comin' back into you once I figured it out  
you were right here all along_

* no light no light / florence + the machine

'_cause it's so easy to say it to a crowd  
but it's so hard, my love, to say it to you out loud_

* little lion man / mumford & sons

_but it was not your fault but mine  
and it was your heart on the line  
I really fucked it up this time didn't I my dear?_

* will the circle be unbroken / courtnee draper (_bioshock: infinite_ choral version)

[ bonus easter egg - this is the song they were singing at Quinn's funeral. ]

* back to black / amy winehouse (covered by naya rivera)

_we only said goodbye with words, I died a hundred times–_


End file.
